


The Conundrum of Romance

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Sex, Anger, Apologies, Arguing, Aromantic Character, Caring, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Spooning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-06 23:33:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5434964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To Moriarty, romance still seems a conundrum he feels ill-equipped to solve.<br/>Moran is shaken when a possible traitor in the ranks brings about the death of one of their associates and his rage is further provoked by the fact that Moriarty seems not to care about the man’s demise. Initially Moran storms out to get drunk and pick a fight elsewhere, leaving Moriarty confused as to how best to deal with him. Then Moran returns home to confront the professor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

    Blood dribbles out of the corner of Willy Beyer’s mouth as he looks up at Colonel Moran. It trickles down his dirty, stubbled cheek and seeps into the coarse fabric of his neckerchief to add to the plethora of mysterious stains upon it.

     “Colonel,” he says. “My wife… The little ‘uns.” A rasping breath, perilously close to a death rattle, and Moran must lean closer to hear Beyer’s final words, despite the reek of blood and below that the stink of Beyer’s rarely-washed body. “See they’re looked after.”

     And for a moment Moran is not here on some dirty, damp floor of an east London warehouse but back in the heat and dust of Afghanistan with a man – a lad – bleeding out beneath his hand, blood bubbling between his fingers and him powerless to do anything to keep that precious life fluid where it should be.

     Snapped back to this present moment and its cold and gloom and stink of the docks, he curses loudly as the light flickers out behind Beyer’s eyes. A brief loss of composure, then the hard mask falls over his face again and he is all coolness and control. “Bring his body!” he barks at two of the other men.

    One of them tries to protest. “But sir-”

    “I said bring him!” Moran’s eyes are dark in the gloom, his stare implacable. “We ain’t leaving one of ours behind.”

     The two lads bow their heads briefly before moving to drag Beyer’s now lifeless corpse up between them.

     Moran watches this for a few seconds before looking down at his gloves. They glisten darkly with the dead man’s blood, irretrievably ruined, not that he’d likely want to wear them again even if a skilful launderer could get the stains out. There is blood down his front too, he notes. That means a good suit ruined and all. He pulls his overcoat over the mess, concealing it as best he can.

      A very pretty mess indeed, all of this, he thinks – not just his own ruined suit and gloves; not even Beyer’s unexpected death which figured nowhere in the professor’s careful calculations; that all this was for nothing anyway. Worse, that they undoubtedly have a traitor somewhere in their ranks. Of the valuable cargo that should have been in the other warehouse there had been no sign, just a man with a blade. A trap, Moran is sure now, after suspecting it the instant they got inside the other warehouse. It suggests a trap certainly; that they have been fed false information to lure them into a net, yet the identity of Beyer’s killer, that seemingly overzealous night-watchman, remains unknown to him. Moran had looked the man square in the face as he despatched him and not recognised him. Was it then some personal motive or was that man merely the pawn of some other higher power, some egotistical young _whelp_ who dares thinks themselves a worthy rival for Moriarty’s crown maybe? Where the professor’s schemes are concerned anything is possible. Moriarty has powerful friends but also some very significant enemies, even if they do not know the true face of the man behind this criminal network. At this present time though, when he is furious and cold and soaked in the blood of a reliable associate, Moran hardly cares _why_ everything has gone wrong tonight, only that it has. Let the professor figure that out if it matters so much. Moran has a dead man to sort out.

  ~ 

      Moriarty remains tight-lipped, almost unreadable, as he stands before the fireplace and listens to the account of the failed mission. There is anger there, Moran knows, but unlike the more volatile colonel the professor largely conceals his rage. It shows only in the briefest tensing of his fingers; the faintest whitening of his knuckles as he grips the edge of the mantelpiece.

    It would be pointless to be angry with Moran though, he thinks. Clearly someone is a weak link in his chain; someone has deceived them and set them up to fail, but Moran’s loyalty is beyond question – he has proven this time and time again. His intelligence too Moriarty doesn’t doubt. If the trap had been an obvious one Moran would never had gone so far in trying to complete the job. They have been betrayed by a source they had no reason to mistrust; someone they had believed they could rely upon. Alas, it is not the first time such things have happened, nor – Moriarty supposes – will it be the last, for human weakness, human _irrationality,_ remains one of those rare things he is unable to account for; totally unable to factor into his careful equations. Even so he has not seen Moran quite so filled with such bitter fury before.

    Behind him the colonel paces, his anger concealed now not at all. “Someone betrayed us and Beyer paid with his life!” he spits out, and Moriarty glances back at him. “He was one of my men, sir. Oh don’t look at me like that. Yes I know you buy us all. You _own_ us. I am yours and in truth all that is mine is yours too, but you weren’t there. _I_ was. I was the one in charge of that job. I should have brought him back alive.”

    “That is what vexes you so?” Moriarty queries with the slightest tilt of his head, turning fully. In contrast to Moran in his still bloodied suit, the professor is dressed in impeccable black, almost funereal looking, perhaps most apt considering recent events, especially when even at this moment Beyer’s body lies in the back of a funeral parlour run by two men who are not too particular about doing everything by the book and will not question the cause of death given by a doctor whose morals are equally questionable.

    Moran’s eyes narrow slightly and he emits a sharp, contemptuous laugh, not troubling to give this query any better response. “Do you even care that someone betrayed us?” he enquires after a pause.

    “Of course.”

    “Then why do you remain so cool even about this? Sometimes you appear entirely unfeeling.”

    “You would prefer I had some childish tantrum? Hurled objects about the room? Drove my fist into the wall? What would that achieve, Moran, but an expensive repair bill and injuries to myself? This is not the first time someone within our network of associates has proven to be unreliable and I doubt it will be the last; bearing that in mind we must deal with each instance as and when it arises.” He fixes Moran with a meaningful look. “I have every confidence in you, Colonel, that you will find out precisely who betrayed us on this occasion and you will deal with them appropriately.”

    Moran gives a short, sharp, almost vicious laugh.

    “Anyway… on this occasion things might have ended up significantly worse,” Moriarty says, and Moran looks at him scornfully.

    “How might it?”

    “ _You_ might have been killed instead.” Moriarty steps towards Moran, carefully hiding his revulsion for the dried blood on the colonel’s clothing. He puts his hand on Moran’s arm, drawing that hand up after a moment to cup his lover’s cheek.

     For a few seconds, despite the slight stiffness of his posture, Moran half-closes his eyes and allows the contact, as if wanting to go along with it; wanting to believe Moriarty. Then he opens his eyes again, his gaze meeting the professor’s as Moriarty stands right in front of him. “I still shouldn’t have let him die; I should have seen-”

    “Seen what?” Moriarty says sharply. “Seen in the dark? Seen into the future? Seen into the tangled workings of a man’s mind and recognised him for a traitor? What, precisely, Sebastian, do you think you should have seen?”

    “I don’t know!” Moran snaps back. “Just… if I’d been a second or two quicker about figuring it out I’d’ve probably run that bastard through first before he stuck Beyer.”

   “Sebastian.” Moriarty pulls Moran gently into a kiss and Moran leans into it at first, accepting it with hesitancy followed by greater willingness. But when Moriarty drops his hand down to slowly caress Moran through his trousers the colonel twists his face away whilst he grabs Moriarty’s hand in a grip that just stops short of painful.

    “You think you can get round me with sex every time? Good old Moran, give him a quick belly rub and a bit of a tumble and he’ll forget everything? I fucked up, Professor, and one of my men paid the price.”

    “You did not err, Colonel,” Moriarty tells him in that same soft, precise fashion of his. He declines to remind Moran that sex has long been exactly the colonel’s usual means of dealing with stress, on those occasions where he does not go out picking fights in seedy pubs at least. “It is inevitable that from time to time unforeseen circumstances arise and, furthermore, that occasionally pieces must be sacrificed.”

    “ _Pieces!_ ” Moran says scathingly through clenched teeth, his pale eyes glittering with rage once again. He steps back entirely from the professor. “And what about me then, if we’re all just pieces on some damned chessboard to you? You claim it’d be worse if I’d been the one killed but why is that, exactly? Because you’d now have to go on the hunt for someone else to do all your dirty work?”

    “Moran.”

    “Leave me alone.” Moran marches towards the door, not turning even to utter this command.

    “You cannot go out still stained with blood like that,” Moriarty points out.

   “I’ll do whatever the fuck I feel like.” Moran storms through the hallway, his footsteps heavy and rapid. A moment later the front door opens and he charges out, slamming the door behind him.

     Moriarty remains standing by the fireplace, seemingly still calm, not at all shocked by his lover’s insolence or by his language. A significant aspect of Moran’s appeal to him has always been that the colonel, however well he takes orders, is no mindless slave or fawning sycophant. For all his loyalty and obedience Moran is not afraid to challenge the professor, a fact which has proven immensely intriguing. As for his language, well, Moriarty may chide Moran for his cursing from time to time but he remains rather fond of his companion’s comparative coarseness. It does not vex him that Moran would dare curse at him in such a matter.

    And yet something does still play upon his mind, as Moriarty begins to idly drum his fingertips upon the mantelpiece. Beyer’s demise was unfortunate and may prove costly in other ways but it hardly concerns the professor in any particular emotional way. Moran’s clear distress over the petty criminal’s death though… this is palpable to Moriarty but he feels he is somewhat out of his depth now in knowing how best to deal with it. This… _romance_ (for want of a better word) that has come to exist between them still feels like something he will always struggle to understand. Should he go after Moran now? Or send someone else in search of him? Or would that only make things far worse between them? Perhaps Moran, ordinarily far more of a solitary creature, much like the tigers he seems to regard as kindred spirits, is better off left alone for a time. It is a conundrum and one that Professor Moriarty feels ill equipped to solve.


	2. Chapter 2

    Close to midnight, Moran slinks home like the tomcat who wanders the streets, picking fights, coming back bearing the marks of those encounters. It is surely significant though, Moriarty thinks, that he has chosen to come home at all. He had half expected the colonel to disappear for many more hours; perhaps even a day or two.

    “Did it give you any comfort?” Moriarty queries, noting the reek of cheap alcohol about the colonel; that and the bruise forming over his eye, the cut to his lip and the scuffs and scrapes on his knuckles. “Drinking in some insalubrious establishment? Brawling in back alleys like some ill-bred child?”

     Moran bares his teeth in a feral, somewhat bloodstained grin. “Some.” He smells like a drunk but he has always handled his alcohol remarkably well. If he has been out picking fights it is likely less the drink that drove him to it and more his strange, dark impulses – ones that he has largely managed to keep in check since entering into Moriarty’s close companionship.

     “Has Beyer’s wife been informed of his loss?” Moriarty enquires.

     “Aye.” Moran rests his palm against the doorframe, leaning against it. He runs his other hand through his tousled hair. “Told her husband’s dead in an unfortunate accident; told her he won’t be coming home no more to see the little ones.” Here he laughs darkly. “But not to worry, some kind benefactor will ensure he gets a respectful send off.”

     “I will ensure his wife and children are amply – though _discreetly –_ compensated for their loss.”

     Moran chuckles blackly again. “And how will you calculate that, Professor? How’d you put a price on a father? A husband?”

     “A father who drank away most of the money he made? A husband who cheated on his wife?” Moriarty says coolly, tersely. “Quite easily, I should think. You see, Colonel, I am not wholly oblivious to the private lives of those I employ, whether I employ them directly or indirectly. Beyer was certainly useful to us and he may well have had some affection for his children; perhaps even for his wife, when he troubled to recollect that he was married, but he was not some manner of saint.”

      Moran, grinning now, leans forward, pressing his forehead against the doorframe. “Who of us is, James?” he says, laughing. “Certainly not I, nor you.”

     Moriarty sighs a little but he holds out his hands to Moran, spreading them in an inviting, conciliatory gesture. There is something a little stiff, a tad unnatural about it, but he is trying his best. “Come with me, please.”

    Moran only continues to stare sideways at him for a moment.

    “You need to get out of – and get rid of – those bloodied clothes, and have a nice hot bath.”

    “And that’ll make everything better, will it?” Moran straightens up again though, which seems like some kind of progress.

     “It’s a start.”

     “A piss poor one.” But Moran goes to him anyway, letting Moriarty take him by the hand; letting himself be led up towards the bathroom with its great white bathtub which Moriarty had had installed at no little expense.

     Whilst the water splashes into the tub there is no talk between them. Only when Moriarty turns off the taps before he moves to begin removing Moran’s clothing does he speak once again.

    “You stink like a brewery, Colonel.” His lip curls slightly in distaste.

    “Don’t care.”

    “You are a petulant child at times.”

    “Then why don’t you bend me over your knee and spank me?” Moran sneers. “A good thrashing, that’ll see me right.”

    “No, Moran.” There is a time and a place for such acts, but this is not it. Instead the professor tries to unbutton Moran’s waistcoat but Moran bats his hands away.

    “I can do it!” However his hands are shaking so badly that he fumbles helplessly at the buttons, and Moriarty finally rolls his eyes before firmly pressing Moran’s hands aside and returning to undoing the garment himself.

     Moran’s clothes are still patched with dried blood. It has soaked right through in one place, through all the layers, and when Moriarty finally peels off Moran’s undergarments he even finds rusty flakes of blood on his skin.

     Naked, Moran looks strangely small and vulnerable. He has gone very quiet now, having ceased his cursing at the professor for undressing him.

    “Here.” Moriarty takes his hand, guiding him over to the bathtub, all the while wondering why he is doing this. Moran is perhaps still somewhat inebriated and likely to cause himself accidental harm in his current condition, true, but Moriarty could order someone else to take care of him and to ensure he doesn’t manage to slip in the tub and crack his head on the side or accidentally drown himself in the few inches of water. Behaving like Moran’s nanny seems very unbecoming for a man such as Professor Moriarty. But he resents the thought of another with their hands on him; he cannot endure the idea of someone else taking care of Moran and giving him comfort. Moran is _his_ , and he is increasingly learning that this means not only during the good times but also during the bad.

    “Professor, I let him down,” Moran says as he slides into the water. “I let _you_ down.”

    “Shhh.” Moriarty finds that he is still holding Moran’s hand and he idly rubs his thumb in slow circles over the backs of Moran’s knuckles. “Everyone makes mistakes, Moran, even me.”

     Moran seems to find this blackly comic, for some reason. “Aye, but do good men die whenever you make a mistake?”

    “Beyer being a good man is highly debatable.”

    “Well it would be to you.”

    “It is simple logic. He regularly broke the law; he strayed from his wife; he neglected to provide for his children by drinking away much of his income. I will ensure that his family are provided with financial stability so, truly, how are they any worse off without him? In many respects are they not in fact going to be better off now?”

    “Except I reckon his wife still loved him.”

    “Which only supports my theory that to love anyone is a weakness.”

     Moran pulls a face and looks away.

    Moriarty arches an eyebrow. “One might suspect you of being a romantic, Colonel,” he remarks as he runs a wet sponge over Moran’s chest.

    “I don’t have a romantic bone in my body, me.” Despite any remnants of alcohol in his system, Moran’s gaze is steady when it fixes on the professor’s.

     Moriarty looks down, feigning interest in the flakes of blood on Moran’s abdomen. “No,” he says, “of course not.” He sponges away the dried blood with considerable care, watching the rivulets of rust-coloured water run down over the colonel’s skin. Moran’s body is lean and taut, muscular but not dramatically so. It also bears many scars. The professor recalls nights where he has stripped Moran naked and traced each scar with his hands and occasionally even his mouth, learning the story behind all of them, although the colonel has always been reticent about talking of some in anything but the most fleeting terms. Now the professor finds his hand shifting to trace one faint silvery scar over Moran’s ribcage – one long-faded but that has marked him deeper than most.

     Moran stares at him, bemused by the shift in the professor’s attention. He has never been comfortable with speaking of what his father did to him and Moriarty has never forced him to divulge more than the barest details, although he has inevitably inferred a great deal more from Moran’s stubborn silence on the topic.

    “I don’t like it when you look at me so,” Moran remarks.

    The professor pulls his attention back to Moran’s face. “Hm?”

   “Like you’re trying to unravel me – strip me down to all my basic parts, like one of my guns, only I don’t know that I’ll go back together the same way after you’ve done that.”

    “My intention is not to harm you, Sebastian.”

    “Aye, but what constitutes ‘harm’ may be a subjective thing.” Moran clamps his fingers around the rim of the bathtub and pulls himself half upright. “Whatever grand ideas you have, you do not always know what’s best for me.”

    Moriarty slowly sets down the sponge and stands up. “Perhaps not. At least, unlike certain others – including yourself – I _do_ care about your wellbeing however.” His tone is abrupt, each word bitten off concisely. He is incredibly dangerous when he behaves so and his narrowed eyes, lids half-lowered over those cool blue-grey eyes, are a clear danger signal.

     Moran is not indifferent to this – he can read the professor better than almost anyone can – but it does not prevent him from laughing sharply. “Care? Emotions are a weakness to you! Something that you want to ignore or suppress!”

     “How then, precisely, is that different to you?” Moriarty enquires, still in that constrained, sparse tone, lacking all emotion. “A man who takes lives on command – the lives of those who have rarely wronged him personally. For a significant portion of your life you have made a living out of killing when you are told to. Did you grieve then for every man you killed?”

    “It’s different.”

    “How so?”

    “It just is!” Moran snaps, and he heaves himself into a standing position, water dripping off him, splashing onto the professor and all over the floor. “I’m _nothing_ like you! At least I’m loyal to my own!”

    “When it suits you.” Moriarty’s thin lips twist into a smirk.

    “Don’t you _dare_ question my loyalty!”

    “You switched sides easily enough when I offered you a job,” Moriarty says calmly.

    “Because the other side betrayed _me_ first! Do you think I’d turn my back on good men so easily? They were fools to cast me out, and cowards. I don’t serve under fools and cowards.”

    “And your loyalty to queen and country?”

    “Maybe I was never loyal to them in the first place. _Maybe_ my only loyalty is to me, and to those who treat me right. Can’t say old Queen Vicky and her bloody empire ever did.”

    “And your father?” Moriarty says, knowing as he says it, even before he sees Moran’s face go pale, that this is not fair; not right to bring up, and yet something – some sense of malicious spite – seizes his tongue and makes him utter the words anyway. “You still feel loyalty towards him.”

     Moran freezes in place. “I don’t,” he says, jaw tense.

    “Then why do you not simply kill him and have done with it?”

    “I will!”

    “No you will not, because he still has a hold on you and perhaps he always will.”

    “I turned my back on him when I was a lad!”

    “Oh really?”

    “You think you know everything, don’t you? That you’re bloody… omnipotent!” Moran steps from the bath, dripping more water everywhere, splashing it over the professor’s clothes as he jabs a finger against his chest.

    “I do not claim to be infallible,” Moriarty remarks.

    “No but pretty damned close to it, and you don’t care, about anything or anyone. If it was me, if I was the one lying there dead in some cheap coffin in the back of an undertaker’s office you wouldn’t even care, would you?”

    “Undoubtedly, I would feel sorrow.”

     Moran narrows his eyes at him then with a snarl he lunges at the professor, shoving him back against the wall. He grips Moriarty’s wrists with damp hands, shoving them down by his sides. When he kisses Moriarty there is no tenderness there, only force; only the pair of them engaged in this sudden battle for dominance, with Moran pushing his tongue between the professor’s lips.

     Moriarty is intrigued by this development, and keenly aware of the hard pressure of Moran’s growing arousal pressing against his body.

     “You don’t truly care about me,” Moran says roughly, his voice gruff in Moriarty’s ear, his face half-buried against the professor’s neck now. “You never have.”

    “Of course I care.”

     In response to this Moran nips at Moriarty’s earlobe, catching it between his teeth, holding it for a long moment – tight enough for him to fully notice it, gentle enough not to damage him – and making Moriarty gasp sharply, and yet the professor does not fight Moran or tell him to stop. Moriarty is far too interested in where this is going for that, and Moran knows it. His hatred for Moriarty in this moment cannot eclipse his love for him, and his understanding of him. “Don’t you lie to me,” Moran snaps. “Don’t you _fucking_ lie to me!”

     “My dear Moran.” Moriarty smiles, deliberately provocatively. If this is what Moran needs, some outlet for his hurt and fury that is closer to home and far safer than fighting in some seedy part of London, then Moriarty is perfectly prepared to give him that.

     Moran stares back at him, lust and wounded fury in his eyes. “I’m not your ‘dear’” he spits out at last. He shoves a hand through his now damp hair, pushing it back off his forehead as he turns away, a contemptuous sneer upon his face.

     Before Moran can move away entirely though Moriarty catches his hand, drawing him back to stand face to face with him once more. Moran slightly narrows his eyes again as his gaze meets the professor’s, holding it for a long moment, his rage failing to mask that questioning look in his eyes.

      “My dear Moran,” Moriarty says again, calm and composed as he holds his lover’s gaze, and that composure in his manner is the colonel’s answer.

     Moran grips his wrists again as he pushes Moriarty back against the wall. He gets a knee between the professor’s legs, shoving them apart. He releases his hold on Moriarty’s left wrist so as to reach down and unbutton the professor’s trousers, aware of the increasing tautness of the fabric there now. “I’ve never been your ‘dear’ and I never will be.” He jerks the buttons roughly undone. “Nobody’s dear to you.”

    “My dearest Sebastian,” Moriarty says this time, and his voice is still level; still calm, although his breath hitches slightly as Moran drags his trousers down over his hips, causing a moment of painful yet delightful friction against his own heightening arousal before Moran manages to drag the trousers off entirely, helped by the fact Moriarty had already removed his shoes so as not to mark the bathroom floor tiles. “Moran!” He catches Moran’s hands momentarily and Moran pauses, staring at him, fury and hurt still etched into every line of his face; in the crinkles at the corners of his eyes; the lines of his cheeks.

     “Get off me,” he says, and returns to undoing the professor’s waistcoat, yanking the buttons through their holes before shoving the garment off. He attacks Moriarty’s shirt next, hastily working the buttons through their holes. He kisses the professor forcefully again so that their lips and tongues and teeth meet and he can taste blood again from his split lip. He is not surprised though that Moriarty kisses him back, nor that Moriarty is nearly as hard as he is now.

     “Slow down, Moran,” Moriarty says when he is as naked as his companion; as Moran grips his bicep and drags him down; shoves him face down onto the floor. The tiles are cool and slippery beneath his bare flesh.

    “Shut up,” Moran growls, straddling the professor’s body now, his knees either side of the professor’s hips whilst he ruts against Moriarty’s bare buttocks.

    “You’re surely not intending to take me without any preparation or lubrication,” Moriarty remarks dispassionately.

    Moran does pause at this, his hands gripping the professor’s upper arms rather painfully. “I should.”

   “And yet you will not.” Moriarty glances back over his shoulder, taking in the colonel’s expression. He still looks vicious, his teeth partly-bared, and there is blood on his lips again. He is panting slightly too as he stares back at the professor, apparently running through the options in his head.

   “Stay there!” he barks at last, shifting away from Moriarty. He scrambles across the floor and wrenches open the cabinet, rummaging inside it for something to ease the entrance.

   “Perhaps you should try-” Moriarty calls.

   “Be quiet!” Moran snaps, cutting him off, and then he’s back, clutching a vial in his fist, and he pulls the cork out of it with his teeth and spits it onto the floor as he resumes his position straddling the professor’s hips.

    Moriarty regards the colonel over his shoulder still, glancing at him with a strange half-smile on his face, but he turns his head again as Moran pushes one slick, oiled finger into him. Moran’s other hand is between Moriarty’s shoulders, sliding up to the back of his neck to hold him down as he works that first finger in deeper, withdraws it momentarily, then eases in a second along with the first.

   Moriarty bows his head and gasps. He did not intend to do something so undignified yet but the colonel’s combined roughness and skill draws it out of him. He shouldn’t let Moran have this for whilst turning him into his slave was certainly never Moriarty’s aim, neither was allowing Moran to ever gain the upper hand. Moran is so angry though and so hurt, blaming himself for the loss of one of his men and believing that Moriarty would care no more for _his_ demise than he does for the demise of a petty thief. Absurd; utterly absurd, but Moran is not always rational when he is hurting and sometimes he cannot see what is staring him in the face. Sometimes it is simply best to allow him to get whatever aggrieves him out of his system.

    When the colonel pushes his oiled length into him Moriarty lets out another gasp and his fingers scrabble against the tiles, finding no purchase. There is still so much anger in Moran’s movements – in each slam of his hips and the way he grips Moriarty’s wrists in his strong hands; the way he bites at the back of the professor’s neck as he takes him and yet, even so… even now he holds back enough to avoid truly harming his lover.

   “You… have never… cared for me,” he says, and his words are punctuated with strange pauses; his words twisted with odd inflections as he thrusts and pants like an animal.

   “I have always… been concerned for your wellbeing.”

   “Yeah, like… a fucking pet! No not even a pet, like… a guard dog, or a carriage horse! Don’t mean you care about _me_. Only… about ensuring I’m _useful_. You would not grieve for me were I killed.”

    “I would grieve.” Moriarty glances back over his shoulder again and his eyes meet Moran’s – those blue eyes, cold but blazing. “For you, Moran, I would grieve.”

   Glaring at the professor, Moran’s movements slow for a few moments; seemingly he is distracted by something. “We’re all just… just playing pieces to you – every one of us.”

   “Don’t be dense, Sebastian! Beyer was a petty thief of no consequence! _You_ are my right hand.”

   Moran laughs viciously, then he reaches around the professor, pulling him half-upright so that Moriarty now kneels in front of him, though with his legs splayed on the slippery tiles, and his face is pressed against the back of Moriarty’s neck. “You could replace me without thought,” he says. He is planted deep inside Moriarty but he has gone almost completely still now, except… not quite. Moriarty can feel Moran trembling against him.

   “Moran,” he says, and he puts his hand down, down to where Moran’s right hand grips his hip. He covers Moran’s hand with his. “Sebastian.”

   “Don’t!” Moran cries, and his voice is so full of anguish. “Don’t be kind to me, not unless you truly mean it!”

   “And what if I do mean it?” Moriarty glances back at him again, awkwardly so, but enough to meet Moran’s gaze again for a brief instant.

   Moran looks away again. He resumes his sharp thrusts and pulls his hand from under the professor’s so as to wrap it around Moriarty’s length, roughly stroking him.

   Moriarty lets him do it. He does not entirely understand just what it is Moran wants from this but he seems to be striving for something with every thrust, with every stroke. Just what is beyond Moriarty’s comprehension, but he allows the act for he does not find it objectionable. There is such a delicious thrill that runs through him when Moran is inside him - those sensations that are pleasurable bordering on exquisitely unbearable. Even though Moran is furious with him, his roughness is not without elegance or care. Even in his fury he cannot cause injury to Moriarty and even though he is so upset, he could not do this to him if he did not know he had Moriarty’s consent. He _could_ tear Moriarty apart, but he will not, not now, not ever.

    “I _hate_ you,” he says, voice low and harsh against Moriarty’s ear. “I hate you,” he says, because that’s so much easier to say than the truth. The catch in his breath sounds almost like a sob.

    “And yet you will never dare walk away,” says Moriarty, and it is not a threat; not said in a gloating or mocking manner; he merely states it as fact.

    “Maybe that’s _why_ I hate you!” Moran drags himself part-way out and slams back in again and the angle is such that it makes a nearly unendurable heat course through Moriarty’s groin. The professor is perilously close to the edge now, despite the discordance in Moran’s rhythm. One, two, three more thrusts, and Moran goes utterly still, biting the back of Moriarty’s neck once again as he comes, so that his cry as he releases is choked off. The pain of Moran’s teeth nipping him seems to go down Moriarty’s spine and straight to his prick and when Moran strokes him twice more he comes too, bucking into Moran’s hand as he finishes.

    Moran remains unmoving behind him. He relinquishes his hold on Moriarty’s neck but does not move. He merely slumps against the professor, his cheek pressed against the back of Moriarty’s head and the hand that he had stroked him with falling limply to his side.

    They remain like this for a long time, unspeaking, breathing hard from the exertion initially but with their panting breaths steadily returning to normal. Moriarty can feel Moran’s heart racing but that too slows. It is hardly comfortable. Moran is on his knees and the professor’s legs are splayed awkwardly, but still Moran seems to show no inclination towards moving, not even withdrawing himself from Moriarty, even though he is no longer hard.

    “Sebastian,” Moriarty says at last, surprised by the softness of his tone. “We cannot remain here all night.”

     “Mm,” says Moran, and the professor wonders if Moran has managed to exhaust himself. He has ceased his trembling, at least; he is so very, very still, and it is disconcerting. It seems less the stillness of potential – an animal waiting to pounce – and more akin to the stillness of death and desolation. It is a reminder that though Moran tends to often express his feelings in very different ways to the professor, he is not immune either to experiencing the kind of dark moods that seize Moriarty from time to time.

     Seeing as the colonel still seems to have no intention of moving, Moriarty finally pulls away from him, feeling Moran’s now thoroughly limp prick slip out of him as he moves, and he grimaces a little. Moran may not have truly damaged him, he remains certain of that, but he will no doubt be sore for a few days even so. His legs feel rather unsteady as he gets up, trying not to slip on the floor. Moran does not look at him; will not look at him still when he retrieves the cloth that floats in the bath and uses it to wipe between Moran’s thighs.

     After cleaning himself off too he throws the cloth into the bath and turns back to Moran, who has still not moved. “My dear Sebastian.” Standing over him, he runs a finger gently along the bruise along the edge of Moran’s eye-socket.

     “I’m not your dear,” Moran says again. “I’m not your Sebastian. When the hell did I ever say you could call me that?”

    “I do not require your permission, _Sebastian_.” Moriarty cups his hands under Moran’s jaw, tilting his head up. He rubs his thumbs against the colonel’s cheekbones so very tenderly and, despite himself; despite all his contempt and hurt, Moran leans into the touch. “Come on,” Moriarty says softly. “You’re tired; you need to go to bed.” He offers Moran his hand and Moran stares at it for a moment. He sighs but takes it anyway, allowing Moriarty to draw him to his feet. Once up though he brushes aside Moriarty’s touch, shifting to wash the oil from his hand before he snatches up his bathrobe. He drags it on hurriedly before stalking from the room without another word.


	3. Chapter 3

     As he watches the water spiral away down the plughole, Moriarty wonders if he is doing any of this correctly. There really should be some manner of instruction manual on how to deal with intimate relationships, he thinks, but he supposes that if anything like that exists it is probably only some insipid pamphlet, referring to men courting their female sweethearts; nothing that even remotely applies to a relationship such as this. Moran certainly has no need of soppy poetry and flowers. What he does require is careful management sometimes but the professor is by and large far more comfortable with strict handling than with tenderness. He senses somehow though that at present too much strictness would only drive Moran further away from him.

    When he enters the bedroom a few minutes later the unmistakable odour of cigarette smoke wafts towards him. He is dressed now in his nightshirt and dressing gown and he pulls the latter a little tighter around him as he approaches the bed. Moran, he notes at once, is seated on the side of the bed facing away from him, a cigarette clasped between still slightly trembling fingers.

    “Moran,” Moriarty says softly. He should chastise his companion for smoking in their room, permeating everything in it with that stench, but this time he allows the matter to pass without comment.

     Moran makes no movement other than to lift the cigarette to his lips and take a drag on it. His back remains to the professor.

     Moriarty pads softly across the floor in his slippers and sits down beside Moran on the bed, grimacing slightly as he does so.

      “I’m sorry,” Moran says, not looking at him still. “I’m sorry I… I were too rough with you.”

     “Nonsense.”

     “But I-”

     “I am not a porcelain doll, Sebastian, good lord.”

    Moran glances sideways at him just for a second. “I’m sorry for some of the things I said too. I know it’d make no sense for you to be upset about Beyer, or almost anyone else. I know he meant nought to you.”

      “I would have assumed he meant little to you also,” Moriarty says. “And yet his untimely demise has clearly shaken you deeply.”

     “I should have brought him back safe.”

     “He knew the risks, Moran; he accompanied you willingly because he wanted the money; he was not forced.”

      “I know, but…”

      “He reminded you of someone else, someone from the army.” It is not a question; it is a statement of fact, the result of a depth of empathy and perceptiveness that many would not credit the professor as possessing. Perhaps he has even surprised himself with this realisation.

     As it is not a question he expects no answer and would certainly never demand one either. He knows Moran rarely refers to his time in the army; knows too that Moran’s medals are buried away in a box, as seemingly the colonel would prefer to bury most of his memories of that period also. Moriarty knows so much about his lover, more than anyone else – the result of a combination of painstaking research combined with simply spending a great deal of time in his company – but he remains aware that there are significant portions of Moran’s life that even he may never hear of first hand. The full extent of the abuse he endured at his father’s hands is one; much of what he experienced in the army is another.

     Moran lets out a long shaky sigh as Moriarty slides his hand over and covers the colonel’s free hand with his, linking his fingers through Moran’s.

     “Professor,” Moran says quietly. “I don’t hate you. I… I could never… I’d never hate you.”

     “I know.”

     “I shouldn’t have said those things.”

     “It’s all right.” Moriarty squeezes Moran’s hand briefly. “Sebastian… are you more afraid that I don’t care for you, or that I do?” For just because Moran craves an intimate, even _romantic_ relationship with him, does not mean that it is something that always sits easily with him. For a long time the intimacy that has come to exist between the pair of them clearly terrified Moran, so unused was he to such things, and perhaps too so afraid was he that he was somehow being mocked, set up to believe he could have what he longed for only to have it turn out to be a cruel prank. “My dear Moran – and you _are_ dear to me – I do care for you.” When Moran turns his face slightly towards him Moriarty presses the lightest of kisses to Moran’s forehead. “Believe me, my dove, for you, and perhaps for you alone, I would grieve were I to lose you.”

     In answer to this Moran lifts his cigarette to his lips and takes another long drag on it before reaching to stub it out in the ashtray on the bedside table. Still he does not speak again yet, though perhaps Moriarty expected nothing more. Moran is frequently not the talkative type, a fact which generally suited Moriarty admirably, him not being the sort prone to indulging in idle gossip either. But then Moriarty has become used to the colonel opening up to him more and more, confiding in him, especially in the moments after sex when he lets his guard down, revealing a part of himself he would rarely show to another. He is uncertain then what Moran’s current silence means.

     He is about to give the discussion up as a lost cause for tonight when Moran finally speaks again.

    “It’s absurd, I know that sir, to feel as I do. I didn’t even _like_ Beyer.” He wrings out a strained, bitter laugh, before looking sombre again. “But, still…”

     “He was, as you say, one of your men.” As Moriarty stands up he rests his hand on Moran’s shoulder momentarily. “It was unfair of me to even remotely infer you were disloyal. I know that your issues were primarily with those above you; those who never gave you the respect you deserved.”

     “Those blithering idiots,” Moran cuts in.

     “You have always been scrupulously loyal where it matters.” Moriarty smiles at him with true warmth, before the smile fades from his face, to be replaced by a look of hesitancy. “I should not…” He clears his throat. “I should not have brought up the matter of your father either. It was… wrong… of me.”

     Moran cannot quite suppress a grin at this. Moriarty rarely comes so close to apologising and he looks so awkward, even pained, when he says this now. “It’s all right, sir.” Once he used to suspect that the professor only raised the issue of Augustus Moran primarily because it gave him a sense of superiority over the man, for even James Moriarty – wicked as he may well be – has never tormented a child. Now he is more inclined to think though that Moriarty’s contempt for Augustus (and, if Moran is honest with himself, Moriarty’s scorn too at his inability to _entirely_ sever all connections with his hated father) is far less about self-righteousness and far more about his real concern for the son who had to endure his father’s emotional and physical cruelty for so many years. “I know that… that you do care for me, unlike him.” Moran darts his gaze up to meet Moriarty’s for a second, before he glances away again.

     “I…” Moriarty coughs slightly again. “Will you come to bed then?” Drawing away just slightly from Moran, he pulls back the bedcovers and slides under them, patting the space beside him.

    Moran watches him for a second or two before acquiescing, climbing in alongside the professor. He turns his back to Moriarty though and it takes the professor a moment to realise that this is not an act of rejection but one of submission. It allows Moriarty to slip his arm around Moran’s body, drawing them close together, the curve of Moran’s back fitting snugly against his front.

     Moran draws in a sharp breath, as if bracing himself to say something more, but he lets it out without saying a word.

     “Go to sleep, Sebastian,” Moriarty says, and as he presses a brief, gentle kiss to the back of Moran’s head he at last feels the tension leave Moran’s body as he relaxes into the professor’s embrace.

     Lying there listening to his companion’s breathing change as he begins to doze off, Moriarty thinks this is all a lot of work, a lot of effort, and for what? For something so dangerous and illogical and precarious and frequently unsettling and that seems to have no rules, no guidelines; for a man so infuriating that Moriarty would like to shake him sometimes. The most complex of mathematical equations are nothing compared to this, trying to grasp why anyone would long for such a relationship; why some people seem to spend years dreaming of such a thing, but even more perplexing is why even he can no longer conceive of living without it; without Moran.

     Though he feels anger still at the thought of another traitor in their ranks, he cannot feel any real sorrow over Beyer’s passing – that much is beyond him. There is perhaps a vague sense of pity for the man’s children but nothing that will trouble him enough to keep him awake at night. He does feel something else though: relief, that if anyone had to be sacrificed then it was that man of slight acquaintance rather than his own companion. Neither he or Moran is untouched or untroubled by earlier events and no doubt there will be more trouble to come as a result of those events but currently Moran lies safe in his arms, sleeping soundly, warm and still very much alive. For the moment at least, all is as it should be.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Shadows of Death](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10316951) by [tiger_moran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran)




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